


The Stones Which Remain

by KendylGirl



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Stranded Together, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Oliver is a man in search of meaning when he travels to Machu Picchu, and in this Wonder of the World, he meets another who will change his life for good.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 97
Kudos: 142
Collections: CMBYN Big Bang 2019





	1. Surprise Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello out there!
> 
> Are you ready for some love and adventure?
> 
> I owe a huge debt to onlyastoryteller for making it possible for me to join this story event with all of you. She's been an invaluable guide, one who could write an entire book on the fine art of brainstorming.
> 
> Also, noodle_kugel and ashleymoshow are wonders for their _excessively_ patient HTML lessons, and blueishdesire saved the day with her superior language skills--gracias, mi amiga!
> 
> And my perpetual gratitude to Willowbrooke for her the sharp eyes and sensible mind!

[ Art by Chalamazed ](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1202794195922149379)

The sun is more intense here, like the air has thinned by choice to please the gods, the Quechuan apus who live yet in the surrounding peaks, just to kiss the heavens.I bend my head back to gaze up the face of the mountain to the east, its billowed sides so like the Na Pali Coast, here ascended to its rightful place, high in the Andes where the waves of the ocean can never find it.But the Incas did, and they built their citadel where their gods could protect them, even as the Spanish conquistadors decimated their country and tried to obliterate what floods and earthquakes could not.

I shift my pack to the other shoulder, and my eyes draw along the line of stones in this corridor, noting how their refinement grows from rough and cobbled in the periphery to the smooth finish and barely discernible slots between them, marvel at the craftsmanship that has lasted through time and desertion, through the charring that still mars other areas of the citadel’s walls, more than a hundred years after Hiram Bingham cleared the jungle away with flames. 

Leave it to a white man to slash and burn when finesse is what is required, when patience should dictate how the precious discovery is handled, not speed.How much was lost in that hasty move the world cannot determine.It’s a debt Pachamama will never see paid.

I wish those tactics were unknown to me, but they are woefully familiar.What few relationships I’ve had typically end in fire.I wonder if Hiram applied the same philosophy to his personal life, rid himself of unwanted entanglements as he would a knot of creeping vines.Nothing is permanent to a man with a match in his hand.

The guide gestures around him while the flaps of his hat billow in the constant wind, his practiced description of the room rolling off his tongue in careful English.The tide of tourists is unusually light today, perhaps a couple of dozen in the entire citadel, and I wonder if there’s some dry-season holiday I hadn’t heard about.I catch enough of the guide’s words to know that this room where we now stand, with its stones so fine-hewn and perfectly placed that even a sliver of paper could not fit between them five centuries later, was one of relevance, one where the gods were summoned and sins forgiven, one with a staircase spiraling up toward the heavens, a tower to commune with the elements and the spirits.

And somehow I can sense it.

The hair on my arms floats up, drawn by an electric current I cannot see, an energy I’ve never quite experienced before.

The group moves on, but I plunk my pack into the dust and take a long drink of water.I stare up through the small window on the upper level of the holy room, which perfectly frames the sun.Is this what they wanted to see?When the ancients sought answers and inspiration, did they look to the stars of the night sky, the ribbon of the Milky Way that cupped the horizons and the Southern Cross awaiting the moon overhead, or was their one true star much closer than all the others combined?

When I left home, I hadn’t known where I was going or what I really wanted.I knew I hadn’t found my answer in school, and I knew that there was no way I was going to placate my family and curtsy to their demands.Their world of gilded structure and internal falsity held no appeal to me.But I had no true purpose to fill the space, to fill the time.I wasn’t sure I ever would.All my friends had moved on, found wives, restarted their lives in a narrowly prescribed world I was ill-suited to inhabit. _Come on, Oliver, grow up, settle down_.The thought of it made my chest tighten with claustrophobic panic.It had seemed more a noose around the neck than a recipe for happiness.They’d all feared I’d be lonely, but there always were plenty of women, plenty of offers, plenty of _everything_ , except what I truly needed.

What that is, of course, I have never had a single fucking idea.

The only thing I knew for sure is that I had to escape.I bought a journal, a good pair of hiking boots, and a plane ticket.The rest was up for grabs.

Did the Incas find what they were looking for up here?The stories abound, but no one really knows.They had created a masterwork of architectural ingenuity in pursuit of it, and my fading hope that by coming here, by coating myself in the residual stardust of their ancient magic, I could somehow fulfill my own destiny now feels vain and foolish.

What answers could I hope to find in this place?Their story doesn’t have a happy ending.The Inca were either slaughtered or driven away by famine or disease, leaving their legacy firmly in the past.They only live on in memory and monument.

And these stones aren’t talking.

I take another long draw from my bottle and use my forearm to wipe the dust from my forehead and the scruff of beard on my face, jostling the aviators on my nose.I’m sure my scalp has started to burn, on the losing side once again of the cursed battle between light hair and unrelenting sun.I sigh and squat down, stuff my canteen back into my pack and dig around for my hat.

Behind me there’s a muffled shout, then another.A sporadic acceleration of spry footfalls, ticking against the stones and dirt, with heavy ones thudding close behind.Someone is approaching fast.

When he pops through the vacant doorway at the other end of the small room, I stand and turn around, and our eyes lock. 

_There you are_.

His eyes are wild, iridescent green like a hummingbird’s wings, his dark curls the nest, forced to every angle by the swirling wind, a twisted halo like a crown of thorns.He is in mid flight, seeming to hover over the ground, arms out to his sides, left to their indecision when his feet abruptly stopped.And his face.His face is carved with the same ethereal artistry that anoints Machu Picchu itself in its perch in the clouds, and his mouth hangs open as his lungs heave.

And it can’t be more than two seconds that we stare at one another across the space between us before it is broken by more angry shouts.

“¡ _Vuelve aquí_!”

“¡ _Para ya_!”

For once in my life, I don’t think.I act.

I take three giant strides toward him and grab him with both hands, pick him up and swing him over to the corner where my bag slumps, waiting.It’s easy, so easy—he doesn’t weigh anything at all, and it makes no sense, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t struggle against my grip.The swoosh of air that leaves his chest when I lift him blows directly into my ear and raises goosebumps over the entire right side of my body.

I drop him in the dirt and he stumbles backward as I crowd him into the corner to block him from view, smooth my hands down his hips, across the outside of his thighs, and he clenches them together. _Good boy_.I brace one hand on the stone behind him so that the rumpled brown jacket I’m wearing spreads like a bat’s wing. 

Behind me I hear heavy feet skid, careless hands slap the stone as the men who own them tumble into the room.Two, I’d say, based on the panting, forced blasts in upbeats and downbeats like the pistons of a wretched machine.

His head is bent, looking at my hand still clutching him, and I’m sure he’s about to shove me off, bite out some choice words and fly down the path once more, but when he raises his face to me, it is perfectly calm, the panic wiped clean by a peace he’s no reason to have right now.His eyes track up to mine, and they are far more arresting up close, all curiosity and intelligence, a colorful spin of early autumn leaves bridged by a flat of sandstone, grains of freckles spilling over onto his cheeks.His lips are parted when his chin tips up just a little more than it needs to, past the boundary of a safe parallel.Is he angry?Is that a challenge?

But then his eyes drop to my mouth.

Oh.

Yes, that’s a great idea.

I lick into his mouth like I’m sliding into home.He welcomes me, tilts his head and loosens his jaw as his hands float up and tighten in my hair, and it is only with a strong exhale through my nose that I keep from groaning down his throat.All my senses fade, save touch.I feel him everywhere: the silk against my tongue, the soft velvet of his lips moving over mine, strong fingers climbing up the back of my head to pull me closer as mine slide around to his lower back to do the same.And _fuck_ if every part of him isn’t soft and wonderful.My thumb strokes up his side, brushes his stomach, and I’m gifted a shiver that makes my own skin flare with heat

Dimly I hear the guys behind us.

“¿A dónde fue?Pensé que había venido por aquí.”

“No sé.”

There’s a slight pause.“Mira a ese pendejo. No puede ni esperar para llegar a su hotel a coger su mujer.”

I feel the sweat run down his spine and ooze over my fingers.I don’t know if he understands Spanish.The way his mouth fluctuates and anticipates my movements, though, I’d wager he is more than fluent in French.

“Tiene que ser americano.Son todos muy prendidos.”

A snort, then several seconds of silence.

“¿Y ahora qué?”

There’s a growl, a sharp crack like one of them has kicked the stone wall, and a wet splat as a glob of spit hits the ground.

“Vamos, por aquí.”

Purposeful thuds fade until all that remains is the storm within me.And maybe it’s just the adrenalin, the surge of it in my blood that causes the pounding in my head, causes it to feel like pure resonance, a chord struck in the exact tone that makes the whole song come together.

“Are they gone?” he murmurs, then sucks my upper lip between his, kisses the corner of my mouth.

“Think so,” I breathe before running my tongue under his, pull it deeper, revel in the slight wrench of my head from the grip he still has on my hair.

“Good.”His hand drops down to my neck, squeezes slightly, just enough.

“Should we…” 

“Probably.”Slurred, as his lips drag over mine, kisses each one in turn.I can hardly draw a breath before he surges at me, seals our mouths together once more, kisses me hard, and just as I relax into it, he angles his head back, makes me stumble a step forward and bend around him, clutch him tighter for a moment until I can recover my balance.

Of course he smells divine.Sweetness and sweat, peach blossoms and puppy fluff.

_What is the matter with me?_

This should be awkward.He’s a stranger, a man. 

_A tasty man_.

Stop it. 

There needs to be shame—I’ve carried it everywhere else I’ve ever gone, so by rights I should be engulfed in it now, give him an embarrassed bro punch on the arm and an enthusiastic, “Good job, dude, we really showed them!” and a trickle of hollow laughter.I should not have my hand on his bare skin.I should not be circling my fingers across his spine and charting the motion of the muscles on either side, under the skin I already know will haunt my dreams until I die.I should not feel my throat tighten with the need to turn my palm and dip my fingers below the waist of his jeans to discover how that skin changes when it is protected and always in the dark.

It’s not awkward, though.Truthfully, this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in a very long time.

He chuckles, and when I ease back, his eyes sparkle at me, his lips puffy and red, and I want to touch them, run my fingers over their curves, watch them respond to me.When his tongue darts out and rolls his bottom lip under his top teeth, I know my cheeks redden, and I swallow hard.

_This is insane_ , I scream to myself.

I should save myself and flee, catch up with the group I’d joined like none of this ever happened.I could take in the views, scribble in my journal, leave without a scratch. 

I could.Couldn’t I?

Then he lays his hand lightly on my chest, fingers curling into the grey fabric of my shirt, like he’s suddenly shy, his previous bravado a mere gust of wind, already spent.“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was fortunate enough to travel to Peru last summer and the visit the ruins of Machu Picchu. It is every bit as amazing as I thought it would be, and I figured that if something as magical as meeting your soulmate were going to happen for Oliver, there would be no place better than this magical spot amid the clouds.
> 
> Pachamama is the Earth Mother.
> 
> Hiram Bingham really did clear away the underbrush with fire, what he considered a fast and efficient method. The some of the stones of Machu Picchu are still charred as a result.
> 
> The men who chase Elio yell at him to " _get back here/right now_ ," then have this (approximate) exchange in Spanish:  
> "Where did he go? I thought he came this way."  
> "I don't know."  
> When they notice Oliver...  
> "Look at this asshole. Can't even wait to get back to his hotel to fuck his woman."  
> "He has to be American. They're all horny."  
> And finally...  
> "What now?"  
> "Come on, this way."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions, decisions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last month, my words have been tilted, bent, and side-lined; bless you, Willowbrooke, for sorting it out! ❤️
> 
> blueishdesire, eres la mejor!

[ Art by Chalamazed ](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1202794195922149379)

_Then he lays his hand lightly on my chest, fingers curling into the grey fabric of my shirt, like he’s suddenly shy, his previous bravado a mere gust of wind, already spent. “Thank you.”_

His gaze pushes into mine and swallows me up.

 _I was about to say the same thing_.

“Oh, I…you’re welcome. I…I just…” I nearly reach out and brush the hair from his forehead. “Are you…” I have to clear my throat, claw back to some type of composure. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I jerk my thumb vaguely in the direction the two men had gone. “Who were those thugs? Why were they after you?”

He shrugs, digs his toe into the dust. “Yeah, well I, ah…I caught those guys…treasure hunters, I guess, digging out some of the smaller stones from the inside of the schoolhouse wall.”

“Schoolhouse?”

“It’s over that way.” He gestures vaguely. “I had my phone in my hand so I just… I took their pictures. I mean, I tried to be casual about it, but…” He shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Shit, this is not good. “Why would you do that? Anything direct from a World Heritage site like this would be black market, and those guys…they don’t mess around. You could’ve…”

“Could’ve what? There wasn’t any time to do anything else. And it’s not like the people in the little vests who tell the tourists not to walk on the grass are going to tackle them!”

I feel a surge of aimless panic and grab his elbow. “Listen to me, that kind of smuggler is very…they’ll kill you and not think twice.”

His eyes flicker, but he compresses his mouth defiantly, drags it up on one side. “I had to do _something_ , though! People should not be allowed to—“ He paces around in long strides, brushes his hand up the back of his head. “Look, my dad’s an archaeologist. I’ve spent my life watching him revere ancient cultures and protect what they left behind for us to discover. These guys can’t just _destroy_ it without consequences! That’s not right! It’s our responsibility to _do_ something, to try to…to…” Then, his eyes slip closed and his shoulders sag. “What am I gonna do now?” He opens them again, and they have changed completely, grown darker as the golden flecks slip away. “Fuck, I’m a dead man, aren’t I?”

It blooms a sharp pain in my chest. “No. No, you’re not.” I go to him, fold him against me and hug him securely, close my eyes when his head falls naturally onto my shoulder. “We’ll figure a way out of this, I promise.” I hear a gurgle, a whimper, his fear and frustration twining in his exhale, so I squeeze him tighter.

A whisper, “Why?”

“Hmmm?” I don’t want to remove my nose from his hair to bother with words.

“Why are you being so nice to me? I don’t even know you.”

 _I’ve known you all my life_.

I snort and take a step back, but my hands drag, and I can’t seem to drop them from his shoulders. “What’s your name?”

He blinks, smile cracking through the weight of his fear like the first fingers of dawn. “Elio.”

I watch his lips as he says it, watch how his tongue flexes in the inside of his mouth, works around the melody of the rounded syllables. I want mine to move across it the same way. “Elio?”

“Elio,” he confirms. Then his eyebrows raise.

“Oliver,” I answer, squeezing the knobs of his shoulders.

“Oliver,” he repeats, spacing it out, as if considering a question. “Oliver, I…god, why does that…your name sounds so familiar.”

I smirk at him. “You can have it if you want it. Turns out it’s been a lot to carry alone.”

“Have we met before?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’d remember.”

His blush is delicious. “I’m really…I’m glad we did…now, I mean.” A small shrug. “Well, anytime.”

He licks his lips, and my eyes flicker to track the motion, and _shit_. I almost do it. I almost pull him back to me and kiss him again, chase that tongue and suck on it until I can taste what he ate for breakfast yesterday. Feel him melt into my touch. Hear him moan my name like it has been inside his throat all along, dying to come out.

Whoa.

 _Too much_.

I drop my hands and take a few steps away.

Dreamers are people who have nothing else to live for, my father is fond of saying. Perhaps he has a point. I can feel the pull of it, the desire to let myself sink in a hazy world where destiny intervenes in the everyday and logic has no place. Elio doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me, or he wouldn’t be looking at me like that and making me feel like I’m—

And even that’s dumb. He’s scared and desperate. That’s all there is to it. What did I think was happening here, anyway? This isn’t some romantic escapade. Did I think we’d fall in love at first sight? That he’d spend a night with me and decide we couldn’t be apart? That we’d stumble off into the sunset together? _Idiot_. Those were the stories that I read as a teenager, not the life I lived. That wasn’t a life _anyone_ actually lived, which has to be why those stories have endured, harmless fictions that made the doldrums of real life somehow easier to survive.

Right now, finding a way to survive is all I should be worried about. 

I kneel down and dig through my pack. “We should wander around for a while. If they’re smart, they’re not going to roam all around the citadel in search of you; they’ll wait for you to come to them.”

“Where?”

“The exit. There’s only one way out.”

His head swivels around, and I can read his thoughts. “No. That won’t work.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to just roll off the edge of the mountain and into the bush.”

“Why not?” He edges a few steps away and peeks out the small square window in the stonework.

My bag falls to the ground when I leap to my feet. “ _Because_ , Elio, you’ll break your neck! The rock face is sheer, the vegetation is unforgiving. You think the Incas chose this site by accident?”

He half turns and gives me a defeated shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s a reflux of acid in my chest when he steps toward the narrow door from which he’d entered my life and bends to adjust his shoe laces. “Don’t go, Elio. Please.” I take a few steps toward him, and he raises his head to look at me, eyebrows flicking together. “I mean, you can if you want to, of course, but it’s not necessary. I have a better idea.” He stands slowly, gathering his dark polo shirt tight to his waist when he puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s wait them out. There are only a couple of hours before this place closes, so we take our time, let them stew. When they don’t find you, they’ll figure that they missed you and you’re already halfway down the mountain. Then, you’re in the clear.”

His face warps as he wars his determination with the hope he wants to feel. He exhales hard and stares at the ground for a few moments, letting the two impulses push for space inside him, and when he looks at me again, his jaw is set and his eyes are soft. He shakes his head. 

“I can’t do that, Oliver.”

“What? Why not?”

“If I stay, then I…” His mouth clamps together again.

I can’t help myself. I drift closer, close enough to touch him, but I clench my fist against the impulse. “Tell me,” I say quietly.

He meets my eyes finally, and his are dark and watery. His hands fall and bend up to grasp at the air, frustration twisting him in knots. “You’ll be _in_ it then. They’ll be after you, too, and I don’t want…” His hand slaps into his forehead and pushes up the fringe of his hair until it stands straight. “You’ll be in danger. I can’t live with that.”

Is _that_ all? I thought I’d come on too strong, freaked him out with my intensity, or worse. Suddenly, I laugh, air leaving my lungs in a gush. I reach out and lay my hands on the flat line of his shoulders. “Elio…” I don’t even know what else to say. I am so relieved that I just want to kiss him again until his face is rubbed raw by my beard.

 _Wait, what?_ Shit, I must really be losing it.

Or maybe it’s the opposite, and I’ve actually found something, something worth the risk.

“It’s fine, really. I can handle myself.” The situation is serious, so why can’t I manage to stuff my moronic grin back into my cheeks? 

He blinks at me, eyes pattering over my face like a cat’s feet, before he looks down, stares at my chest, and suddenly it’s like he can’t bear for me to see him vulnerable while so much of me seems flippant and locked away. “Elio, I’m glad I’m involved.” He looks up at me, though as a reaction to my words or to the fact that my thumbs have started to stroke his neck, I’m not sure. “And I’m not going to let you just go off on your own and not know if you are safe. I couldn’t live with _that_.”

He chews at his lip. “No.”

“Yes.”

Owlish eyes peer at me. “What? No! I got myself into this, Oliver. I can get myself out of it just fine.”

“So?”

His eyes grow impossibly larger, shimmering emeralds that catch the light. “ _So_? What the hell do you—”

“I don’t think you’re helpless.”

“Good! Because I’m not.”

“I know.”

“So you can just—“

“Dance?”

His nostrils flare. “ _You can_ —“

“Fly? Backstroke? Chew with my mouth closed?”

“Oliver!” He sighs, a faint smile brushing the corners of his mouth. “This is insane! _You’re_ insane, you know that?”

“Intimately. My entire family would heartily agree.”

“You _should_ tell me to fuck off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the fun in dying?”

“Are you kidding me? Try sitting through a lecture on respecting your heritage from a man who cheated on his wife from the moment they were married. _That_ feels like dying.” I smirk. “Trust me when I say that today is the best time I’ve had in _ages_.”

As soon as I’ve said it, I know it’s true. He must as well, if the blush that overtakes him is any indication, and once I feel the skin beneath my thumbs heat, it makes my stomach flip. 

Elio’s curls float in a gust of wind. “All right, so what do we do for the next two hours?”

I just raise my eyebrow to him.

And his blush deepens, and the smile grows.

Damn, this guy is too much for me. Is there anyone who _could_ walk away from him? For all of the mistakes I’ve made in my life, even I’m not that much of a fucking fool.

Finally, I chuckle and gesture around me with one hand. “We’re standing in the middle of one of the wonders of the world, you goose—let’s explore, learn something!”

Now his eyebrow raises. “What if I already know it all?”

I laugh, “Ok, ok, fine, then teach _me_!”

“It’ll cost you.” 

And I see a flash of something then, something tantalizing and wicked that makes me want to force his hand. “Name your price.”

He is perfectly still for just a moment before he pushes forward, grabs my hair tight with both hands, makes me gasp into his mouth as he kisses me, works around my mouth as poetry, a dactylic song I’ve been trying to sing but have never found the words for until now. My hand is thrown from his shoulder to grab at his waist, and I want desperately to haul him flush against me, to grind into him, to chase more of the gnawing ache that he both awakens and resolves.

When he pulls away, he drags my bottom lip with him until it pops out from between his, and I suck it back into my mouth to let my tongue collect the residue of him, swallow it down. His cool Cheshire grin turns up to the sky, and his head cricks to the east. “The Intihuatana is this way.”

I toss my bag over my shoulder. “Después de ti, señor. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted the exchange of names in this chapter to reflect the introduction that they have in the film when Mr. Perlman volleys the names back and forth. I think of that as the first time their two names felt like one.
> 
> Intihuatana is the carved stone at Machu Picchu that marks the four cardinal directions and served an astronomical function; at the two equinoxes, casts no shadow as the sun is directly overhead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio tour a bit and connect, until it seems they have no choice but to part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was incredibly hard won, and if you're one of the few reading it, I profoundly thank you!
> 
> Got circular prose that _ticks_ you off? Willowbrooke is the doctor to call! :)

[ Art by Chalamazed ](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1202794195922149379)

For whatever blindness infects a man on the ground, I never suspected that the sky could be more enchanting the closer I get to it. Everywhere I turn, I find myself looking up with awe, with longing, a slack jawed envy of the wisps of cirrus clouds lapping at the disk of the sun.Each view proves more spectacular than the one before, and the way the mountains jut from the curves of the rivers below, it’s as if they are fingers, gloved in lush, tensile vines, the eternal walls of the citadel cradled in a massive palm, sheltered in the folds of skin, tipped along a lifeline that bleeds straight to a burning heart down below.

Indeed, the Inca selected this location carefully. Sacred rivers and celestial marvels aside, no one would survive the Andes without knowing the rocks and the mountains. They built their foundation on intersecting fault lines, which may have seemed the riskiest of decisions, meant for unavoidable disaster, but it was the smartest thing they could do. Here is where the rock is already fractured, ripped and broken by the heave and maw of underlying processes beyond its control, already scattered in unusual shapes, laid bare and left helpless to surface elements nearly as ruthless.

That’s not a flaw, though; that is its strength. This rock can be molded quicker, its chips and curves able to fit perfectly into the grooves of another that it otherwise would never have encountered; it can be fashioned with less toil into walls that will last for millennia.

Elio forges ahead of me down the path and after a moment’s hesitation to orient himself, he swerves off to what appears to be a dead end and begins to dig through the brush just beyond the thin rope marking where none shall pass. I glance around behind us.“Elio?”

No reply.

“You making a nest, or…?”

“Just have to…” His voice trails off as the bush at the edge of the stone step sways and hisses. Then he pops to his feet and tosses a rectangular zippered black bag over his shoulder, turns to me with a satisfied grin. “Had to get my stuff.”

“Ah. Sniper rifle?”

“Worse.” He pats the side of it. “My EOS and Sigma lenses.”

“A camera?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”

“Wait, didn’t you say you’d snapped your pictures of those guys with a cell phone?”

“Yeah, well…I was trying to be careful, and this thing isn’t exactly low profile,” he strokes the bag as he chews on his lip. “So I stashed it here when I started to run.” 

I blink at him. Then, I can’t help but smile. Why does that seem such a desperately _Elio_ thing to do? I know nothing about him really, but the thought of him worrying about the safety of his electronic equipment while he’s running for his life manages to suit him perfectly.

“What?”

I snicker, bite at my cheek to keep it contained.

His eyebrows crinkle. “This was a birthday present. I didn’t want anything to happen to it!” His face is so earnest, and I just know in my bones that this is how he is in his regular life—concerned and honest and adorable, cripplingly _adorable_. He swallows. “My parents got it for me,” he adds in a small voice, as if that would somehow allow it all to make sense.

I throw my head back and laugh, patting his shoulder as he passes.

Over the next hour, Elio proves himself as adept a guide as any employed by the Peruvian government. At one point, we stand on the edge of one of the myriad stone stairs to take in the grassy central plaza in the midst of the citadel. 

“Looks like a soccer field,” I remark with a shrug. 

He keeps his face deadpan. “No, none of that.It’s strictly for the llamas. The Inca loved them dearly, gave them the prime real estate.”

“Well, screw that, I’m an alpaca kind of guy. Llamas are so rude.I mean, that one over there does not even realize he’s taking a piss on a sacred rock.”

“Whoa. So you’ve never heard of the Pissing Rocks of Peru, Oliver? They were an Incan tradition, representing the aquatic cycle of life!” he scoffs at me.

“Must’ve missed that.” I thumb the end of my nose. “Does that mean you’re one of the few who have studied the annals of Thomas Crapper and the evolution of the flush toilet?”

“The _anals_ , you mean?”

“And what about the priceless Shitting Posts of Canada?”

“Hasn’t everyone worshipped those? Their genesis was required reading when I was a kid in Rome.”

“Well, you’ve got to go there, just make sure to—”

“Watch my step? Got it.”

“Because if you’ve lived in Rome, then you know how it’s done.”

“And how exactly is it done?”

“Ah, ‘like the Romans do,’ of course. Duh.”

“But it’s the same the world over.”

“Can’t be.”

“Yes, I’m Italian, so I should know."

“Impossible.”

“Go figure.”

“Who’s been teaching you this tripe?”

“The Sorbonne. NYU.Juilliard.”

“That’s humiliating.” 

“Terribly. Where did _you_ go to school?”

“Harvard. And Columbia.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, well, no wonder. Bunch of idiots.”He flips up the collar on his shirt and glances around. “I’m kind of ashamed to be seen with you.”

“Can’t blame you for that.”

“Plus, you’re really ugly.”

“Am I?”

“ _So_ ugly.”

“Yeah, well, you talk like hypnotic green eyes are attractive or something.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath. “No, they suck.”

“They do, they really, really do. Because they’re gonna keep me awake at night, and that is fucking annoying.”

“Maybe I could relate, if only you knew how to kiss.”

“Too bad then.”

“Sure is. Misery and company are supposed to have some kind of relationship, aren’t they?”

“Yup.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

“So tragic.”

I glance over at him. His arms are crossed jauntily in front of his chest, bowed head shaking out his curls over the rueful crimp of his pink lips, but when our eyes connect, he grins wide and stops my heart. He elbows me, and I shove him back, and we fall up a series of stone steps onto a plateau.He wanders over to the edge and looks around, runs his fingers through his hair.I follow slowly and keep my eyes on the horizon while his arms sweep around. “This view is incredible, isn’t it?And it’s so _quiet_ here.”

“I believe that a no-fly zone restriction exists above this area.”

He hums. “The river looks so small from up here. Just a thin thread.Barely a trickle.”

I peek down past my toes. It’s nearly a straight drop, thousands of feet of rock and its complex thatch of green. My brain spins, my stomach liquefies.“Yeah, that’s something,” I mutter and slide back behind him.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

He turns to look at me, holding his hand at his hairline to shield his eyes from the sun.

I wince. “Look, this trip was completely spontaneous. It is totally out of my wheelhouse of comfort, but…I mean, I guess that’s the whole point of life, right? You’ve got to be outside your comfort zone or else you just stagnate, and…”

“And?”

“And, uh…I really, _really_ don’t like heights.”

“Is it an altitude thing? Because we’re not any higher here than you would be at a ski resort in Colorado. Cuzco is thousands of feet higher.”

“No, no. I don’t get altitude sickness.”

His head drifts back and forth. “Probably not.”His eyes sweep up my body. “You’d get sick every time you got out of a chair.” His charming grin follows.

My eyes roll. “Ha ha.”

“But you’ve been on the mountain all day, and the height hasn’t seemed to bother you.”

“Yeah, well, the interior is different, the view is more…global. But at the edge, I get the fabulous advantage of being reminded of exactly where I am, and I’m gifted the joy of absolute terror, both immediate _and_ in retrospect.” I’m trying to sound detached and clinical, but I’m too late to stop the tremor when I take one last involuntary glance down at the nothingness that lies below.

So I wait for it, steel myself for the inevitable ribbing I’ve earned, for whatever shit that admission will cost me. Hell, I’d not be able to resist it, and Elio has already shown glimpses of what I can only assume is a thoroughly wicked sense of humor, one that I find (despite his considerable assets) the most alluring of them all. No problem.It is, if I’m honest, my only coping tool.I can take it.

But exactly when he should claim his victory, his face softens, and he reaches out and squeezes my elbow, turns me around gently and leads me away from the edge toward a large stone which looks like a kite jutting up at an angle from the ground, carefully roped off from clumsy tourists. He starts to tell me about it, but he doesn’t release me, instead running his hand up and down my arm with a series of soft squeezes, kneading the tense muscles there.I have no idea what he’s saying, but I focus on the warmth of his hand and the soothing motion of his mouth as it moves around the words until all of me has relaxed.

“…all around the empire, I think.”

“Say that again.” _So I can watch your eyebrows undulate when you’re thinking, how you pause to contemplate your words with your mouth open, pulled to one side, tongue wetting your lips in the dry air_.

He looks up at me, and I suddenly realize how close he is, pressed against my side so that I can smell his skin and feel his heartbeat pick up when those brows flick together, so that I can tell his gaze goes to my mouth when he realizes the very same thing.

And I feel it again, the pull of him, that same indefinable gravity, that familiarity and calm that seemed to bleed from every pore. Jesus, I don’t know what it is about him.The downward turn of his eyes? The upward curl of his mouth?The dusting of freckles over his nose?The errant curl that falls to the center of his forehead no matter what direction the wind blows? Those teeth which look perfectly straight and perfectly crooked all at the same time?

Suddenly, his hand drops and a cold breeze rushes to replace it. “Umm…”He brushes his hair up the back of his head.“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Elio huffs and points, “I was just talking about the directional stones like this one.”

“Path markers?”

“Yeah, perfect for a jungle in the pitch black of night.”

“How so? It’s just a rock.”

He gives me a sharp look, and I realize he’s not sure if I’m joking again, so I decide to let him guess—broadcast the contradiction of sober eyes while a small smirk ripples one corner of my cheek. _Figure it out, Elio. There’s no wrong answer_. He bites his lip, considers his response. Finally, he turns toward me, eyes on fire, and angles his head up so that his pale neck is elongated and exposed; then, he runs his hand up and down the thin column of his throat, fondling slowly across its peaks. “It catches the moonlight, Oliver,” he murmurs.“All it has to do is give back what it gets to shine bright.”

And he strolls off to examine a nearby wall, leaves me standing there, pupils still dilating in the glare of the setting sun.

When we finally get to the Intihuatana, the light is fading and most people have already started for the exit, so we find ourselves alone on the dais. It’s colder here, like the night has already started to claim us for its own.

It settles painfully in my gut then, how our time together is nearly at an end, and I feel the chill under my skin, feel the bite as my instincts kick in, the ones that scream for insulation, for survival.

Elio crosses his hands behind his back and rocks up onto his tiptoes. “They call this the ‘hitching post of the sun.’”

I start to walk around it. “Literally, _Intihuatana_ means ‘tie the sun.’”

He starts to walk the other way. “That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Not to my mind. The conversion implies defeat, a domestication. A hitching post?That’s for a donkey.But the literal meaning suggests the kind of restraint necessary to glimpse for a single, precious day a force that will always remain wild.”

“And some things, by their nature, must be wild?”

“Yes.”

Now, we are on opposite sides of the monument. “And…and some things _choose_ to be that way, no matter how much we wish we could claim them and call them ours. Is that right?”

“Pretty much.”

For a few moments, he is silent, but even from this distance, I can see his jaw clenching. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I thought you should know.”

“Because you thought I should know?”

“Because I _wanted_ you to know.” I start walking again, meeting Elio on the opposite side. “Mythology indicates that the Inca believed that tying the sun to stones like these on auspicious dates prevented it from disappearing for good. Even the Inca knew, that if the sun goes out— _when_ the sun goes out—all life would come to an end.”

His face is unreadable in the purpling light. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

I have no idea if I’m making sense to him. I have no idea if I’m making sense to _me_. I nod anyway. “Elio, look where we are. All this splendor?It’s a shell,” I say quietly. "Pachacutec began its construction, but Machu Picchu was never finished—it was abandoned.”

Elio’s gaze seems to fracture, and he focuses on a point over my shoulder, muttering something in Italian that sounds like _Ho capito_. He steps away abruptly and scoops up his camera bag, “Getting late. We’d better get going.”

My throat burns, but what am I going to say? There are a thousand things I want to tell him, a million secrets I’ve waited a lifetime to share.But there’s no way to make this feel right, and any assurances I could offer him right now would be false. He knows it, and I know it, too.So I keep my mouth shut, let him disappear down the stone steps before I follow at a slight distance. 

We trudge the path marked with arrows along with the scant stragglers left behind at this hour. About fifty feet away from the exit point, Elio stops dead.

“Hey,” I nudge him. “You okay?”

He whirls around and grabs my arm, squeezes it like a vice. “Shit, Oliver…there they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Intihuatana is a sculpted rock that stands about six feet high and rests on a series of carved levels. It is believed that the stone was likely used as a calendar, as well as possibly serving an astronomical purpose, matching solar points at the solstice.
> 
> Elio's Italian muttering is (I hope) _I get it_.
> 
> Llamas really are all over Machu Picchu; they ramble and lounge, heedless of the humans who gawk at them. I had one nearly knock me off a path because I was in his way to his grazing step. 🙂


	4. Closing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio try to leave the ruins and leave the mountain intact, but things don't go as they'd hoped...

[ Art by Chalamazed ](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1202794195922149379)

I stare over Elio’s shoulder.He doesn’t have to tell me which guys they are.They look like they’ve been peeled from the pages of a comic book.A short wiry man with small eyes and a goatee, his leather vest, dusty jeans, and pointy-toed boots all black, sets the straw hat back on his head as he scans the crowd gathering for the bus off the mountain.His partner, a hulk in a jean jacket and construction boots, hovers over the exit point like he owns the table where the tourists can stamp their passports with Machu Picchu’s name and likeness.

I drag Elio backwards until we’re out of sight around the corner of the terrace wall, mumbling apologies to the people trying to get around us and shooting us daggers as we bump past them.“Damn, these fuckers just don’t give up, do they?”I glance around to make sure that none of the site workers have clocked us, poised to swoop down and shoo us along, keep to the strict clock they have adopted to control the tide of benevolent destruction.Part of me wonders which of them are complicit, the ones with greased palms who agreed to a cut of the action to have their own cultural treasures carved up and sold to the highest bidder.If they saw a couple of panicked Americans, they could very well raise the alarm, and we’d be trapped.

_Not good not good not good_.

I feel a sheen of sweat form on my forehead and the backs of my hands.“Look, Elio, this is really…shit, what do we…maybe we could—“

When my eyes fall back onto Elio, all of the words dissolve on my tongue.He’s trembling uncontrollably, his face chalky and hollowed, like he is moments from vomiting all over his shirt.I don’t even feel my bag fall to the ground when my arms reach out for him.“Elio?”

His head turns like he’s underwater, and he gazes at me with an absent expression.

“Hey, hey—Elio, no, please don’t be afraid.Come on, it’s gonna be all right, really.You hear me?Elio?”I rub my hands up and down the icicles of his arms.“Just breathe, okay?Breathe slowly, in and out.Can you do that for me?In and out, in and out…”

He clutches at my arms to steady himself as his world spins.He stares with unseeing eyes at my chest, and his mouth finally puckers as he follows my voice, his breath evening out in loud swooshes.“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…Oliver, I…”He swallows and resets his feet, twists at the fabric of my coat sleeves.“Thought…thought they’d be gone by now.I really thought they’d be _gone_!”

“So did I,” I chuckle airily, trying to keep my voice even, soothing.“But it’s okay, it’s all right, really.”I caress his cheekbone with my thumb, cup his chin with my fingers to get him to look into my eyes.“You with me, Elio?It’s going to be fine, I swear.”

His eyebrows pinch.“How?They’re right _there_!How’re we gonna do this without getting killed?”

My mind is racing.“First, we need a wardrobe change.Take your shirt off.”

“What?Why?”

I pull my arms out of my coat.“Hurry up.”I tuck my coat between my knees and grab the hem of my shirt.“If we time it right, we can leave with the tour group that’s coming down the stairs behind you.” 

Elio doesn’t answer, but when I reemerge from pulling the fabric over my head, he is bare chested in front of me, holding out his polo to me in a two-finger grip, eyes turned to the ground.I don’t have time to look at him, so I don’t notice his nipples harden in the breeze or the single freckle on the knob of his shoulder.I don’t have the luxury of relishing the blush that looks like paint spatters on his cheeks nor the lush feel of his own warmth when I slide his polo over my head and yank it down to my waist. 

He puts on my grey tee, which hangs asymmetrically on his narrow frame, and I toss him my coat.“Button it up, and I’ll carry your bag with mine.”I zip open my pack and pull out a notebook and a ballpoint pen.“Just flip it open to a random page and look busy when you walk by, like you’re recording everything you see or working on your great Italian novel or something like that.If a man can get into any secure building in the world with a clipboard and a confident wave, then a man can slip past murderous crooks with a notepad and a distracted look.Got it?”

Elio’s nodding furiously, and with each layer of my clothing he slips into, the more relaxed he seems, and I’m relieved to see some of his confidence return. 

“One more thing.”I dig around in my bag and pull out a soft-billed safari hat, rumpled at the edges.I wiggle it in my palms to flatten it, then poke up the dome.“Gotta cover those curls.They’ll get you recognized from space.”I wink at him and brush back the fringe at his forehead so I can cinch the hat down on his head. 

He beats the dust off of his pant legs and resets the coat collar around his neck.“Is this…am I okay?How do I look?”

I wish he hadn’t asked me that.The last thing I need at this moment is to become consciously aware of the fact that he’s in my clothes, to allow my brain to imagine for even a second that he has grabbed them casually when he’d awakened in the morning because they happened to be closest to his side of the bed and he wants to get up and make us coffee, to see him smile at me when he brushes my hair with his fingertips to wake me gently, a steaming mug in his hand.

The last thing I need at this moment is to realize just how fucked I really am.

_Focus, Oliver_.

“Perfect.”Did my voice _have_ to crack?What am I, sixteen?“No one will know it’s you.”

“Right, good.”His hands run fitfully down the front of the coat, into the pockets, then out again.“Well, should we do this, umm…”and with the barest wisp of a smile, “…Elio?”

Somehow, it’s like an elbow to my chest, and when I dip my head and inhale, I pull his scent from the threads of his shirt to fill me up. _Say it again.Whisper it into my ear_.I give him a sharp nod, all business.When about half of the tour group has passed us, I motion to him.“Try to stay behind me,” and my mouth is dry as sand when I scrape out, “ _Oliver_.”

We shuffle our way into the middle of the straggling travelers.It looks to be a collection of families, so the age ranges are huge, which is a plus, ensuring we won’t be immediately out of place.They’re fairly sullen, likely tired from the day’s excursion, so conversation is sparse, and it seems to take years before we clomp around the last corner and along the flat stretch of path to the wooden bridge that marks the exit.The older man next to me has a rolling gate, babying hips which have had their fill of the extended rise of Incan stone steps, so I pull tight the camera bag and gesture for him to pass, use the opportunity to glance around, as if I’m soaking in the last of the mountain views.

I catch Elio’s eye and hold it for a moment, raise my eyebrows. _You good?_ I see his jaw clench, his grip tighten on the notebook, crinkling the empty page.

The bridge dumps us out into the same tidy plaza where we’d started, the entrance to the fortress just to our right.At the mouth of the plaza is the depot for the bus drop off and pick up, and behind it, the Belmond Sanctuary Lodge, the well-appointed luxury hotel and restaurant built here to cater to its pampered guests while blending seamlessly into the jungle around it.

The Hulk paces around in front of the beverage vending machines that are tucked into a corner, and half of the people stagger over that way because water is at a premium in the thin, dry air.They give him a wide berth as he eyes them intrusively one by one, a sneer of frustration tattooed to his face.

I snag a site map from the passport stamping table and drift in his direction, but I hover at the mouth of the drink alcove with my back to the citadel, throwing my shoulders back and standing as tall as I can to obscure his view of anyone behind me.

To my left, I see Goatee prowling the winding wait line of the bus shelter, hat clutched in one of his hands.Without warning, he darts forward and grabs a dark-haired man by the shoulder, flinging him around.The young man yelps and curses loudly in German.Goatee, unperturbed, merely shoves him off and moves on down the line.

It helps that the area is enclosed by trees and the upsweep of mountains on most sides, so the sky is still light, but shadow has descended here.I tick up and down a few times from the map, twisting my head around like I’m trying to orient myself.It allows me to spot Elio emerging into the plaza on slow feet, dutifully scribbling in the notebook.He doesn’t look up.

Suddenly there’s a roar and a flash of light as the shuttle bus crests the hill.It is the conduit up and down the steep mountain from the gathering point in the town of Aguas Calientes, the only means for those unwilling or unable to hoof it via the Inca Trail.It chugs up to the front of the Belmond and hisses to a stop.Goatee raises his hand to gesture at The Hulk, which causes his vest to pull aside, and I can just make out the pearl handle of a small pistol in the waist of his jeans.

_Fuck_.

I glance at my watch.This bus is the last one off the mountain.

The vehicle is like a magnet, drawing everyone toward the depot.I follow at a distance after The Hulk knocks me aside without comment, marching across the plaza to join his partner, and I see Elio cross behind me like a ghost walking a tightrope bound to the back corner of the depot’s structure.Since the site is closed, there is no one to disembark the bus on this trip, so Goatee stalks up to it and bangs a fist on the door, which slowly opens, and he disappears inside.Moments later, the driver stumbles off, eyes wide, adjusting his collar with fumbling fingers, a small, metal counter in his grip.

Goatee reappears in the bus doorway, filling it up, grim smile on his face.

Triumph.

He owns it now.

I hold my map up high to shield my face and look back to find Elio, to see if he realizes what’s transpired.He’s not under the shelter.I whirl around.He’s not in line.

_Where did he go?_ I squint helplessly toward the darkened snack bar and the vending machines, the closed trail from the ruins we’ve just exited.My stomach lurches. _Did he ditch me?_

Goatee flaps his hand at the people lined up.“Billetes, por favor,” and everyone inches forward, tired faces that seem unaware of the changing players, waving their tickets aloft to both men, but neither bothers with the formality of scanning them with the handheld device.The driver keeps his focus resolutely on the clicker in his hand, while Goatee just stares at their faces, one by one.

“Are you in line, young man?”

I startle and follow the sharp voice down to a petite woman roughly eighty, both in years and pounds.She scowls at me over the lace collar of her crocheted cardigan, heavily jeweled hands on her hips.Her smart black outfit could be a doll’s tracksuit, and the thickest part of her is easily the fanny pack encircling her like a munitions belt.

“I, uh…”I can’t think, eyes glued desperately to the lit rectangle of the pay toilets to see if Elio eventually emerges from one.

“Well?”

“Pardon me, ma’am…ah, you can…umm…”

“What are you looking at?” she squawks.“Are you getting on the bus?I want to get on the bus!”

“Sorry, please just—“

“Eh, Rubio?”The Hulk is squinting at me, and his shoulders slowly square in my direction. 

_Great_.

I give the woman a tight smile.“My apologies.”I bow to her and place my hand lightly on her shoulder.“You’re most welcome to go ahead of me and—“

“Stop it!Don’t touch me!” she shrieks, whacking my arm with finely painted scarlet claws.

I jerk back and put my palms up.“Look, ma’am, please, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to—“

“¡Rubio!”The Hulk takes a step toward us, his fists flexing.“¿Hay una problema?”His voice is like a wood chipper.

So this man looks like he eats toddlers for dessert, but he’s upset about potential harm to this old lady?That doesn’t track at all.I watch his eyes dart around to the other people, the door to the hotel, back to his partner who is glaring at the slow line of travelers clomping up into the belly of the bus. _Oh_.Alarm, attention.One bus driver pissing himself is fine, but a loud, messy thunderstorm of upheaval is not what they have in mind.

Perspiration sprouts on my forehead.Can I use this?In a wild rush, I nearly pick up the woman and run in a circle screaming, or fall by myself on the ground and start flailing around as if I’m being electrocuted.Why not?Why not throw up a ball of chaos and see where it lands, let it bounce around until it has shaken us loose from the dirty grip of these assholes.Would they run?Maybe I should just rush the guy, tackle him like I’m a linebacker for the Patriots.So what if I haven’t played football since sixth grade.If I surprise him, I might get him flat to the pavement before his partner can even register what’s happened.

But what would I do after that?

And what about the little problem of the gun?

The old woman stomps past me imperiously, muttering something that sounds like _masher._ The line has almost disappeared, the weary bus shifting under the weight of its expanding load.

Do I get on, too?Will he know where I am?Will he know to follow?

_Where are you, Elio?_

A funnel of wind swirls through the plaza the moment he appears on the flat-stone sidewalk from behind the opposite side of the depot.He must have paced back there, waiting for the right moment to slip aboard and blend into the seat backs amongst the other passengers.

My relief is palpable, and it is all I can do to keep from calling out to him.I force myself to look down at my ticket, praying that I appear casual and disinterested, wanting to devour his expression and assure myself that he’s all right, but knowing that would only draw the aggressive eyes right to him.

The hat on his head lifts in the sudden gust, and tendrils of his hair spill out onto his forehead, over his ears.He tries awkwardly to tamp down the hat with this forearm since both of his hands still grip his props, but the pages of the notebook splutter noisily in the wind and catch the brim of it, yanking it up even higher.

Just as Goatee turns his way.Pauses.Squints harder.

No.

_Fuck no_.

“There you are!”I call, waving cheerily to Elio, who is frozen in place with skin like parchment.“Is our table finally ready?”I stride forward, gathering the last few passengers toward the door to the bus in what I hope looks like a polite gesture to give them the right-of-way while I pass behind them.A couple wearing matching plaid shirts obligingly crowds in front of Goatee, chattering away in Korean.It’s enough to break his concentration as he mumbles something and sneers at them.

I spin around and curl Elio to me with one arm around his shoulder, force out, “Yes, I hear this place is _fantastic_!” and bundle him to the stairs leading into the Belmond.

“Oliver,” he chokes, rolling his head down, scraping his chin on the lapel of my coat.

“It’s all right,” I whisper before raising my head to laugh, “Well, I’ll try the cuy if _you_ do!”

We reach the landing, and I hold open the door for Elio, nudge him inside.I grit my teeth and hazard a glance backward and _holy shit_.

The drive is empty.

Everyone has gotten on the bus, which begins to beep morosely as it backs up in a slow arc to make its descent on the pitted snake of the mountain road.

“Is it gone?”

The door sighs to a close behind me.

Elio and I stare at one another.

I nod.

He launches himself at me, and I catch him easily, “Oh my God, Oliver, oh my God…”Hot breath in my ear, a giggle, and another, my new favorite sound.

I squeeze him tight and put him down before I can’t stop, before I give in and—

“We’re all right, Elio…except for two medium-sized problems.”

His head cocks.

“First of all, now we’re stuck here.That was the last transport back to town, and there’s no way to hike out at night.”

“Ok…”His grin is adorable.“I think I can handle that.What’s the other?”

I roll my eyes.“I’m fucking _starving_.”I jerk my thumb toward the restaurant to the right of the lobby.“You maybe want to have dinner with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuy is guinea pig, a rather popular dish in Peru.
> 
> My thanks again to Willowbrooke for her beta skills!

**Author's Note:**

> Please share your thoughts with me!


End file.
